


Back to You

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Decisions, Confessions, F/M, First Kisses, Future Fic, Get together fic, M/M, Pining, Podfic Welcome, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 03:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15699438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: And I'll regret it if I didn't say, "this isn't what it could be."Shane wakes up and knows immediately that something is wrong.





	Back to You

**Author's Note:**

> written to the tune of [back to you by selena gomez](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VY1eFxgRR-k). i was struck by the lyric _and i'll regret it if i didn't say this isn't what it could be_ , and then i fucked off doing my job for about 5 hours to write this all in one sitting. the idea just wouldn't leave me alone!
> 
> i'm really pleased with how this turned out, namely because it's so different from what i normally write. i hope you all enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing this. 
> 
> big thanks to hannah for beta'ing, as always!! 
> 
> enjoy!

Shane wakes up and knows immediately that something is wrong.

Namely, he’s hungover—and he stopped drinking five years ago, has the chip to prove it.

That, and his joints don’t hurt _nearly_ as bad as they normally do. He’s not typically one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but the distinct absence of aching pain in his elbows and knees and back… well, it’s more than a little off-putting.

He doesn’t even want to open his eyes; he’s man enough to admit he’s a little scared of what he’s going to find.

Which is silly: he’s in his late forties, he should be more logical than this. He’s always prided himself on being rational, sensible, but his heart is hammering too hard in his chest for him to think clearly. And let it be known, he’s not one of those guys who thinks men shouldn’t ever be scared. That’s just stupid.

But being scared of—of _what_ , exactly? Finding out he’s in some alternate timeline? He’s been body-snatched? He’s secretly been cursed with a Benjamin Button-esque body and he’s aging in reverse?

Ridiculous.

Even so, he lays in bed and counts backwards from one hundred. As he counts, he thinks about what he can feel.

His head is pounding from the hangover and his mouth tastes like something died in it. His joints still ache, but not as bad as he’s accustomed to; hell, he thinks he could even skip his dose of Celebrex for the day, and _that_ makes him feel old. He’s running a little hot under the blankets, and he can feel the scratch of pajama pants on his legs. He’s got a shirt that’s sticking to him slightly, and he brings a hand to his chest to pluck at the fabric. He pulls it away from his chest and sighs at the rush of cool air that hits his skin.

His hair feels weirdly long, and he runs his other hand through it. It’s not as brittle as he remembers; it’s softer. He pushes his hand back and can’t help a confused noise in his throat when he doesn’t hit the baldspot he’s come to accept. Swallowing, he drops his hand from his hair and rubs at his eyes instead. No glasses, which is good, because he hates falling asleep with them on.

He starts over when he reaches zero, and keeps cataloging.

The air in the room is stale, like a box that hasn’t been opened in ages. There’s a faint taste of dust when he breathes, but more than anything it smells like cedar and sweat—familiar, but not enough that he can place it. He wriggles against the sheets and notes they’re kind of shitty quality. Not that he’s ever been a stickler for thread count, but sometime around his fortieth birthday he’d decided it was one of the easier things to splurge on.

He strains his ears but he can’t hear anything other than the ambient noise of the empty room, his breathing, his blood rushing in his ears. He turns his head toward what he thinks is the window, but it must not be open or he must be somewhere relatively deserted. Or it’s the asscrack of dawn, and no one in their right mind is awake.

That makes sense, he thinks; he’s definitely not in his right mind, right now.

When he’s counted down from one hundred a third time and has officially run out of things to catalog in his mind, Shane sighs. He’s got no choice at this point. Time to face the music.

Faintly, he laughs at himself; he hasn’t been this dramatic in a long time.

He breathes in through his nose and exhales through his mouth, and then he opens his eyes. He stares up at the popcorn ceiling and squints. It’s not a special ceiling, it’s like a million other ceilings he’s seen in his lifetime. It’s not going to give him the answers he’s looking for.

Slowly, still surprised at the ease with which his body moves, he sits up. He blinks rapidly as he looks around the room.

He was right about the window placement, and right about it being closed; golden light, speaking to a late morning or even early afternoon, bleeds in through the curtains. There’s no noise outside, but Shane thinks if he waited long enough he’d probably hear a car drive by. He looks around his room a few times, taking note of each and every little thing. His dresser that’s scuffed along the sides, piles of clothes that he can easily identify as clean or dirty just by what’s piled where. He blinks when his eyes fall on his bedside table, and he realizes he doesn’t actually need his glasses to see most details—something that hasn’t been true in several years.

He scrambles for his glasses and jams them onto his face; the world coming into focus does nothing to calm his nerves. Slowly, he swings his legs over the side of his bed. The floor is cold beneath his feet but he hardly notices as he takes long, quick strides to his bathroom. It’s not attached, not like the one in his real house—real house? old house? what’s _happening_. It’s down the hall.

He finds it easily enough, because it’s familiar. Because he’s been here before.

He slips in and, despite knowing he lives alone, locks the door behind him. He stares at his hands and notes the lack of wrinkles, of age spots, the missing scar across his knuckles from an especially brutal bar fight before he got sober. He clenches his hands into fists and presses them against the fake granite countertop. He steels himself, psyches himself up, counts down from ten and—

He looks up into the mirror.

Shane Madej, forty-seven year old executive director at the media company he works at, recovering alcoholic, once-divorced and with no children to speak of, sees his thirty-two year old self staring back at him.

He immediately leans closer and runs his fingertips over his skin. He’s still got bags under his eyes, but these aren’t the same as the deep purple and wrinkled bags he’s come to known. These are bags that speak to too little sleep and just a touch too much partying the night before. His laugh lines are there but far less prominent, and—okay, maybe he’s a little vain, because he grins at this—his hair isn’t graying.

He runs both hands through his full head of brown hair, and laughs. “What the fuck,” he says, startling himself.

He never realized how much his voice changed over the years. He presses a hand to his throat and swallows against his palm.

“I’m Shane Madej,” he says to his reflection, feeling ridiculous but not knowing what else to do. “I’m thirty-two.” He breaks into a grin again at that. “What the _fuck_ ,” he whispers to himself.

He’s still staring at himself, poking and prodding at his body, when a chime sounds from his bedroom. He turns and waits, but it’s not a continuous ringing. Not a phone call. A text, then. Probably.

He’s strangely reluctant to leave his place in front of the mirror, as if the spell will shatter the minute he steps away.

Then his phone chimes again, and something in his brain says _Ryan_.

 

 

> Shane leaves Buzzfeed.
> 
> There aren’t any hard feelings, but things aren’t exactly peachy-keen when he leaves, either. Unsolved is thriving, and Ruining History is gaining traction; he and Ryan are sprinting towards some kind of precipice.
> 
> Shane’s never been brave enough to think about that last one too much; he’s not ready to admit that what he feels for Ryan maybe went beyond that of best friends and coworkers.
> 
> So when the job opportunity arises, in New York, outside of Buzzfeed, something cultivated just for Shane—well, he leaps on it. Despite their increasing fame and views and all the fun they’re having. Because they are. His time with Ryan is nothing if not fun, always.
> 
> But Shane still leaves. And Ryan congratulates him, slaps him on the back and says, _“I’m proud of you, Sasquatch,”_ and they both ignore the quiver in Ryan’s voice.
> 
> Ryan helps him pack. Ryan helps him figure out shipping all his shit to his new loft in New York; Ryan even drives him to the airport the morning of his flight. For a long while, they stand in the parking garage beside Ryan’s car. Ryan asks, _“Want me to walk you to your gate?”_ and Shane fires back, _“I’m a big boy, Ryan, I’ll be okay_.” And they both grin, but it doesn’t quite reach their eyes.
> 
> Shane, weighed down with his two carry-ons and single personal bag—that damned fanny pack, he’s even got _jellybeans_ in it that he’ll have to toss before he reaches security—hesitates. He almost backtracks, almost asks Ryan to walk him to the front door of the airport, at the very least.
> 
> Then Ryan reaches for him, tugs him into a hug so tight, Shane can’t even lift his own arms to return the gesture. As quick as it starts, it’s over. Ryan wipes at his eyes so fast, Shane thinks he imagined the wetness shining in his eyes.
> 
> Ryan sniffles. _“Fly safe, big guy.”_
> 
> _“Text you when I land,”_ Shane promises.
> 
> And it’s all downhill from there.

 

Shane stumbles back into his bedroom and snatches his phone from the bedside table.

 **from [ryan]** **  
** _how’s the hangover big guy?_

Shane’s heart is beating double time again. Fingers clumsy and vision blurring, he hurriedly types out an answer.

 **to [ryan]** **  
** _i think i need to stop drinking_

 **from [ryan]** **  
** _that bad?? you didn’t even break out the tequila_

Shane’s stomach roils at the thought of tequila; some of his worst decisions were made drunk on too many shots of Patron.

 **to [ryan]** **  
** _seriously tho. bad._

 **from [ryan]** **  
** _we could turn it into a video. people get sober for a month lol_

Shane shakes his head fondly. Without thinking about it, he falls back onto his bed. He rests his elbows on his knees and stares at his phone in his hands. He thumbs over the screen even after it goes dark.

He doesn’t know what’s happening, not precisely, but he’s got a pretty good idea. Some kind of _Scrooged_ thing is happening here, maybe. Like _Scrooged_ and _Groundhog Day_ had a fucked up baby and Shane is Bill Murray. Except he’s not in Pennsylvania, and it’s definitely not Christmas.

He snorts at the thought—if this is how they get proof of ghosts, he might actually just die.

His phone buzzes and chimes in his hand. This time it _is_ a call: a picture of Ryan at Knott’s lights up his screen.

He brings his phone to his ear, clearing his throat as he answers. “Hey.”

 _“Hey. You don’t sound_ that _bad.”_

Shane laughs. “Gee, thanks,” he drawls.

Ryan scoffs. _“Whatever. Look, I’m at your front door with a fuckton of waffles and bacon. Let me in?”_

Shane’s heart beats right into his throat. He coughs again. “Uh, yeah. Give me a few, I’m not decent.”

 _“When are you ever?”_ Ryan says before hanging up, which Shane figures means _yeah, sure, I’ll wait_.

Shane stares down at his phone, the screen dark once again. Then, he tosses it aside and starts to dig through his room for some clothes. He knows he doesn’t need to dress up for Ryan, but something in the back of his mind tells him to at least put on something other than his pajamas that stink like stale alcohol and sweat.

He answers the door a few minutes later in a stretched out tee he doesn’t remember buying and jeans that are about two inches too short on him but are loose in the leg and comfortable. Ryan, true to his word, is standing in the doorway with both hands full of plastic bags; the scent of fresh waffles and bacon hits Shane like a freight train, and his mouth waters.

“C’mon,” he says, stepping back. “What’re you waiting for? An engraved invitation?”

Ryan rolls his eyes but steps inside and around Shane, immediately heading toward the kitchen. As Shane watches him go, he’s hit with deja vu. Not just the whole, suddenly-being-thirty-two-again thing—but more tangible than that, more specific.

He’s lived this exact moment before, he realizes, even if it’s all fuzzy around the edges. He doesn’t know the words that are going to come out of Ryan’s mouth, but he knows he’s lived this before.

He figures that’s probably significant.

His head pounds in agreement, and Shane decides he’ll analyze it more later. He follows Ryan into the kitchen to find the other man has already gotten plates dished up and grabbed the syrup from Shane’s fridge. There’s even a square of butter melting on Shane’s waffle, and Ryan grins as he presents the plate.

“Thanks man,” Shane says with a dry mouth. “Want me to grab drinks?”

“Nah, I got it.” Ryan leaves his own plate on the counter as he goes to Shane’s fridge again and pulls out a carton of milk. Shane watches him inspect the date, uncap it and take a whiff before nodding. “Chocolate syrup?”

“Not today,” Shane replies; his voice sounds distant to his own ears and he wonders if Ryan notices.

Ryan shrugs and kicks the fridge shut behind him. He pours them each a glass full almost to the brim, and then tosses the carton, capped once more, toward the little bin for recycling that Shane keeps near the baker’s rack.

“Saturday morning cartoons?” Ryan asks, holding a glass of milk in each hand. Shane reaches and snatches up Ryan’s plate with a nod. He turns and heads back to the living room with Ryan close on his heels.

As they sit, as Shane watches Ryan operate his television and get it to whatever channel he wants, he tries to piece together this memory. This moment. Whatever. Can it be a memory if you’ve lived it before? If you’re living it right now?

“You look way too deep in thought,” Ryan observes before shoveling a forkful of waffle and bacon into his mouth. “Eat, dude. You’ll feel better.”

Shane nods and digs into his food just as the _Spongebob Squarepants_ theme starts to blare from his TV. He snickers around a bite of crisp bacon, and Ryan elbows him playfully.

“Shut up, you love it.”

 _I love you_ , Shane thinks, and just like that, he realizes what this is. He stops with a bite of waffle, slathered in butter and syrup, halfway to his mouth. Ryan, now entranced with the cartoon, doesn’t even notice. Shane forces himself to eat, to chew and swallow like a normal person.

This is the moment when Shane realized _it_.

 

 

> Shane likes his life in New York.
> 
> It’s never predictable, there aren’t any ghosts or spirit boxes, and he’s fast working his way up the corporate foodchain. He impresses his bosses and scores dates and goes out with friends far more often than he had in LA. Too often, maybe; what starts as drinks after work on Fridays turns into drinks after work on Mondays, because, Mondays, am I right? And then drinks on Wednesdays, because hump day, you know? And then—and then—and then—
> 
> Shane drunk dials Ryan one night. Morning? It might be morning by now, he’s really not sure. The bar is dim and smoky despite the ‘no smoking’ sign near the exit sign.
> 
> _“Hello?”_
> 
> “Ry!” Shane shouts, garnering some stares he doesn’t notice.
> 
> _“Shane?”_
> 
> “S’me!” Shane says proudly. “How ya been?”
> 
> There’s some mumbling on the other end of the line, something like the white noise of a lot of people talking, and then silence. For a second, Shane’s alcohol-added mind thinks Ryan hung up on him. Then, _“What do you want Shane?”_
> 
> “I can’t call just to talk?” He says, his tone overly wounded, turning playful as he dissolves into giggles.
> 
> _“You haven’t called me in weeks,”_ Ryan snaps, and suddenly Shane’s chest constricts. _“Jesus, are you_ drunk _right now?”_
> 
> “Uh, yeah.”
> 
> _“It’s a fucking Tuesday night,”_ Ryan says. He sighs, and Shane can practically picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, rolling his eyes, anything. _“You should go to bed.”_
> 
> “I’m at a bar!” He says, like Ryan should know.
> 
> _“You don’t have to shout, god.”_ Ryan sighs again. _“Can you call someone?”_
> 
> Shane looks around. “Probably? But Ryan, I wanted—?”
> 
> _“Call someone. Get home safe.”_
> 
> Shane stops whatever he was about to say. “I’ll text you,” he says. “When I’m home.” Why is his voice so small? He was so happy when he dialed Ryan’s number. What happened?
> 
> Ryan laughs. It’s a bitter, brittle sound. _“Sure. You do that.”_

 

Shane keeps eating mechanically. Ryan still doesn’t notice anything off with him, which… Shane is pretty sure that’s what happened last time. He pretended not to freak out, and Ryan didn’t notice anything, and life went on. Life went _shitty_ , he thinks.

Shane blinks, unseeing, at the screen. He’s got no idea what’s happening with Spongebob and Patrick right now but he doesn’t care. Much like the weight that landed on his shoulders when he realized he lived this day before, this moment feels just as significant. Is this a turning point? Is this the moment that he would someday look back on, bittersweet, and think, _“oh, if only…”_

Shane swallows his next bite of waffle and chokes, because he didn’t chew as much as he needed to. He coughs and sits up straighter, and Ryan’s palm comes down on his back, a solid force.

“Shit, dude, you okay?” Ryan asks. He’s set his own plate aside and is giving Shane his full attention, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

Shane nods despite the flushed feeling in his face, the way it feels like an enormous doughy glob of waffle is caught in his throat. He clears his throat over and over, Ryan continuing to smack his back, until he can breathe without struggling.

“Sorry,” Shane says, voice rough and thin.

Ryan shakes his head. “Jeez, way to give a guy a heart attack.”

Shane smiles back at him, and Ryan’s attention returns to the television.

They eat in relative silence, occasionally giggling at something that happens in the cartoon; even after their plates are cleared and their glasses are empty, neither Shane or Ryan moves. If anything, they melt more into the couch. They’ve got nowhere to be, there’s no harm in taking a day and lounging around.

“You should take off your jacket,” Shane says, voice sleep-heavy. His eyes are drooping but he knows Ryan has been fidgeting where he sits, and Shane knows it’s because he’s wearing a tight, stylish jacket that offers zero comfort.

Ryan looks surprised. “Oh, uh.”

“You gonna head out?”

Ryan shakes his head.

“Then take your jacket off. Stay a while. Make yourself at home.” Shane gestures vaguely to his apartment. The food and residual hangover have made him tired; he’s slouched against the couch and fast drifting back to sleep. He leaves his arm open, though, a not-quite-subtle invitation.

Ryan is a smart guy. He understands. Shane watches through half-lidded eyes as Ryan shrugs out of his jacket and drops it on the floor beside the couch. Then, Ryan is shifting closer, almost but not quite pressing himself into the curve of Shane’s body.

Good enough, Shane thinks; he lets his arm drop around Ryan’s shoulders. Maybe he tugs the other man a little closer,  but not much. Don’t want to scare him off now.

This is different from the first time Shane lived this. He still can’t recall the whole thing, but he knows there was no cuddling. This is probably a step in the right direction; he grins to himself.

“Hey, Shane?”

“Mm, yeah?” Shane says. He doesn’t open his eyes, feels too tired.

“Are you gonna take that job?”

Shane’s breathing catches for a second. “Dunno.” He brings his hand up to comb through Ryan’s hair. “I don’t think I’m done at Buzzfeed yet.” He still doesn’t look at Ryan.

 

 

> Shane wakes up on a sidewalk, which tells him he’s maybe gone too far. The sun is bright overhead but a shadow looming blocks it out. Shane’s ears feel plugged, his mouth is dry and disgusting; his clothes are damp from a misty night and he smells like cigarettes and booze.
> 
> Slowly, words penetrate the fog of his mind. “Shane? Jesus Christ, Shane, what the fuck.”
> 
> Shane manages to blink enough that his vision clears, and he realizes the shadow looming over him is none other than Ryan Bergara. “What’re you doing in New York?” He asks, still slurring. Still drunk, then. Nice. He laughs to himself.
> 
> “We’re in LA,” Ryan mutters. “Fuck.” He drops to his knees beside Shane.
> 
> “Oh,” Shane says. “Shit.” And then he laughs. “That’s not good.” He falls back against the brick wall behind him and sighs. “Whoops!” He cackles.
> 
> “Shane,” Ryan says, and there’s a fond smile on his face before it’s replaced with concern. “Where are you staying? Do you remember?”
> 
> Shane somehow manages to get his phone out of his pocket—when had the screen shattered? He passes it to Ryan, who’s smart enough to get it open to recent messages. The next hour passes in a hazy blur. Ryan calling an uber, getting Shane into the uber, sitting beside him in the uber. Shane tries to say something during the ride, but Ryan only shushes him.
> 
> As Ryan helps him up to his hotel room, Shane tries again. “Missed you, haven’t seen you in years.”
> 
> “I know,” Ryan says. His tone is clipped, but Shane is too drunk to care.
> 
> “You never call me.”
> 
> “Yeah, well, you don’t either. Unless you’re—you’re like _this_.” Ryan steps away from him long enough to shove the keycard into the slot, and then he’s dragging Shane inside. Again, everything goes fuzzy. His shoes come off, as does his jacket. He falls under the covers of the bed, and there’s some murmuring, words he can’t process. Then Ryan’s sigh, a sound Shane would know anywhere.
> 
> A hand against his forehead, thumb rubbing in gentle circles along his temple. Then a door opening, shutting, and silence.
> 
> Shane wakes up a few hours; his phone is on silent but one look tells him it’s been blowing up with notifications. Images come back to him of what happened, and he can’t quite believe of all the people, _Ryan_ is the one who found him passed out drunk on a street in LA. What are the odds? (He’ll learn later it’s because he was passed out in the alley outside Ryan’s apartment building.)
> 
> He skims through his phone with the brightness on low, and he opens his messaging app to fire off a text to Ryan. At the very least, even if they haven’t properly seen each other in five odd years, he should thank the guy.
> 
> He scrolls for what feels like hours before he realizes Ryan’s number isn’t in his phone anymore. And he never bothered to memorize it because—because it would always be in there. He stares at where it should be, between someone named Raquel that Shane doesn’t remember and his coworker Sam’s number.
> 
> He drops his phone onto the bed, rolls over, and goes back to sleep.

 

“Ry,” Shane mumbles a few hours later. Ryan is properly cuddled up to him now, and it’s as good an indicator as any that Shane made the right choice. “Can you sit up for a sec?”

Ryan nods and as he sits up, he sways. Shane laughs and steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. Ryan winces as he tilts his head from side to side, and Shane can feel a familiar crick forming in his own neck. For a moment, he just watches Ryan wake up. It’s a slow thing, sweet, and Shane feels his nearly fifty years bubble up inside him—it takes shape as regret, anger at himself, for missing this, for letting this go.

He reaches out and cups Ryan’s faintly stubbled cheek. “Ryan.”

“Shane?” Ryan asks, then yawns. He stretches and rubs at his eyes. “Sup?”

“Don’t freak out, okay?”

Ryan’s eyes snap open. “Okay…” He’s immediately on edge, as though the words ‘don’t freak out’ are a queue for him to do exactly that.

Shane laughs under his breath. “I love you,” he says in a single breath. His heartbeat kicks up about three notches, to the point he wonders if he’ll just have a heart attack here and now. Wouldn’t that be some shit? Sent back in time to change his shitty future and he kicks the bucket in the process.

Silence stretches, and Shane starts to think that maybe a heart attack would be preferable.

 

 

> Despite that fiasco—it had ended up on TMZ, what the _fuck_ —Shane spends the next five years of his life binge-drinking and making increasingly bad decisions.
> 
> He still does his job, and does it pretty damn well. He only comes in to work drunk three days out of the week (usually) which he really thinks isn’t too bad. Plus, he gets promoted, so he must be doing something right.
> 
> Somewhere around his thirty-ninth birthday he falls in love, or what feels like love, and marries the girl a year later. Her name is Mary, and she’s nice, from the pacific northwest but acts like she’s born and raised in New York. She’s a drinker too; Shane is pretty sure that’s how they met. She wants a baby, he doesn’t, they fight, they drink, they stay together for the kid they don’t have.
> 
> In the back of his mind, Shane’s aware of Buzzfeed thriving as much as ever. He’s proud in a distant way, even if he doesn’t keep up with anyone from his days there. Sometimes, when he’s really drunk, he’ll proclaim, “I used to work for Buzzfeed!” And everyone else will laugh, like it’s a great joke.
> 
> It’s not. Deep down, he misses it.
> 
> Six months before they get divorced, Mary tries to get sober. She tries to drag Shane into it with her. The papers are finalized six month before Shane’s forty-second birthday, and really, they’re better off apart.
> 
> On Shane’s forty-second birthday, he wraps his car around a pole and comes to in a hospital, handcuffed to the metal railing of his bed.
> 
> _Finally_ , he starts to get his shit together.

 

“Oh,” Ryan says softly. Finally.

“Oh?” Shane asks, his voice verging into hysterics. “It’s totally chill if you don’t feel the same way, but you can’t just say _oh_ like—like—”

Ryan kisses him. Practically flies at him, hands moving eagerly over his chest until they wrap around his ribs, and haul Shane close. Ryan kisses him hard and all teeth at first before it settles into something sweeter, easier. Shane cups Ryan’s face with both hands and kisses him back.

Ryan whines as they break apart. “I thought you—I thought you would take the job and leave and we’d never talk about this and, and, I—I couldn’t—”

Shane shushes him gently. “I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

Ryan blinks at him with wide eyes, wide _teary_ eyes. Shane wipes at the tears before they can fall. “But the job.”

“Fuck the job,” Shane says, almost surprised by how much he means it. “We’ve got Unsolved. And Ruining History. I’ve got _you_.”

Ryan lets out a broken noise; when he throws himself at Shane it’s to wrap around him in the tightest hug. Shane thinks back to the day at the airport—the day that won’t happen, now. It feels like that, but so much better. Shane hugs him back and kisses the side of his head.

“Fuck,” Ryan says shakily, later, when they’ve arranged themselves to lay on the couch. It’s a bit of a tight fit, and Shane’s got one foot hanging off the edge and Ryan is a heavy weight on his chest. But it’s perfect. “I didn’t think…”

“It’s okay,” Shane says softly. “We got time. It’s okay.”

Ryan nods and tucks his face against Shane’s neck. After a few minutes, his breathing evens out. Shane laughs, a soft and toneless noise, and he closes his eyes.

 

 

 

Shane stays at Buzzfeed.

He and Ryan keep making Unsolved, and Ruining History, and various other videos. They even make a video announcing their relationship, because they know it’ll drive the fans nuts. It gets over a million views in a half hour, and Shane can’t help but preen a little bit. Ryan calls him dumb, but kisses him, so it all works out.

Shane does stop drinking, and Ryan doesn’t push. They don’t make a video of it, and Shane is glad Ryan doesn’t ever bring up the idea again. Shane still goes to bars with friends, with coworkers. Ryan still drinks, even if Shane has to reassure him every single time that it’s okay.

 _“Why do you sound like a recovering alcoholic? Was it really that bad?”_ Ryan asks him one night, buzzed, as they’re tangled under the covers.

_“Nah, just needed a change.”_

 

Shane can see his whole life stretching in front of him.

He never tells Ryan that he somehow traveled back in time, a la _A Christmas Carol_ , not because he doesn’t want to but because… what’s the point? The other timeline, or future, or whatever—it’s full of shitty memories, and Shane would much rather leave it in the past. So he keeps it to himself, even when he can’t help but compare.

In the other future, he got blackout drunk on his thirty-seventh birthday, a few months before he would end up just as drunk in the streets of LA. Here, now, he spends his thirty-seventh birthday with Ryan, in their apartment in west LA, watching _Spongebob Squarepants_ and sharing three deep dish pizzas.

Where before he was married by the time he was thirty-nine, there’s now a ring burning a hole in his pocket as Ryan’s own thirty-sixth birthday rolls around. Shane knows it’s not the right time, not quite yet, but he knows it’s coming. He keeps the ring with him all the time, even on the last couple Unsolved shoots they do before the show tapers off to a natural end.

Ryan ends up finding it when he tries to surprise Shane with some spring cleaning. Shane is forty-one. He comes home from an interview to find Ryan on their couch, the little velvet box in his hands. Ryan looks up as he steps through the door.

 _“Yes,”_ is all Ryan says.

 

Eventually, Shane hits his forty-seventh birthday. He makes a joke that morning about feeling like he’s nearly a hundred years old, even though he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel like he’s living two lifetimes, but thinks maybe he _should_ feel that way. Ryan pinches him in the side for being up too early, being _weird_ too early. They fall back asleep together. Shane, as sleep takes him again, wonders if this will be the day he finally tells Ryan what happened, fifteen years ago.

 

 

 

 

Shane wakes up disoriented and with a killer pain in his neck. “What the fuck,” he croaks.

“You’re awake,” Ryan says as he walks in. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh to Shane’s eyes, and he lets out the faintest sigh of relief when Ryan stands in the way of them.

They’re at work, Shane knows. This is his favorite breakroom couch because it’s _almost_ long enough to fit all of him. Ryan is holding two cups of coffee in his hands, and holds out one for Shane to take.

Shane stares at it. He sits up and stares at the coffee cup like it’s a fucking bomb.

“C’mon, dude. I walked three blocks to get this for you cuz you’ve been so tired all day.”

Shane reaches out slowly and takes the cup. He sips at it, humming, but he can’t get the bewildered look off his face. He moves his feet as Ryan sits at the end of the couch.

“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“We’re not married?” Shane asks.

Ryan chokes on his sip of coffee and nearly spills his cup down his front. “What?!”

“We’re not—are we not married?” Shane asks. He’s not looking at Ryan. He’s staring very intently at his coffee cup.

“Uh, no,” Ryan replies. “We’re not even dating.”

Shane looks at him finally, eyes still wide. “We’re not?”

A flush creeps over Ryan’s cheeks. “No, dude,” he says softly. “Are you okay? Seriously, you’re—?”

“I had the weirdest fucking dream,” Shane says. Already, the dream is fading to the recesses of his mind. What details he can still make out are good and bad, a weird mixture, all of them on the tip of his tongue. “I left Buzzfeed, and then I became an alcoholic, and totally ruined my life. And then I got sent back in time to fix it.” He takes another sip of coffee to fortify himself.

“And that has to do with us being married… how, exactly?”

Shane swallows. “Uh, I ruined my life because I was in love with you, and when I went back in time to fix shit, I got the balls to ask you out. And then we, y’know. Were in love. Got married. Think we adopted some dogs.”

“Oh,” Ryan says. “Wow.”

“It was a lot,” Shane agrees. “Like, I was forty-something when I went back in time, and then I managed to live to being forty-something again?”

“Weird.” Ryan sips cautiously at his own drink, as if waiting for Shane to say something else outlandish.

Well, Shane would hate to disappoint. “I do love you, you know.”

Ryan chokes again, but it’s less dramatic this time. All the same, once his breathing is under control, he asks, “What?”

“I love you. I think that’s what the dream was trying to make me realize. I mean, I’ve known I’ve loved you for a—a _while_ ,” Shane hedges around just how long. Because he’s a loser who _pines_ instead of just saying something. No time like the present, he thinks with a hysterical laugh. “But like, my life in that dream was _shit_ because I didn’t man the fuck up.”

Ryan is staring at him with burning cheeks and wide eyes.

“ _That’s_ what I’m choosing to take the dream to mean. That I need to man up and—and tell you how I feel. So this is me. Doing that.” Shane gestures with his free hand as if to say, _there you have it_.

“Shit,” Ryan says under his breath. “I didn’t know you believed in dream symbolism.”

Shane groans. “You are so completely missing the point, I can’t believe. Something _just_ like this happened in the dream, I’ll have you know—” He’s gesticulating wildly with his empty hand right up until Ryan reaches out and links their fingers.

Shane stops talking very, very fast.

“I love you too, big guy. Chill out. And I won’t let you become an alcoholic.” Ryan giggles slightly, looking bashful but delighted. “No time travel needed.”

Shane stares at him for a long, silent moment, before letting out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank fuck.” He sets his coffee on the ground beside the couch and brings his hand to Ryan’s cheek. “Gonna kiss you now.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ryan says, tilting his head back.

“No more missed chances,” Shane says, mostly to himself, as the kiss breaks.

“Okay,” Ryan agrees. “Sure.” And then they’re kissing again, and it’s even better than his dream, which is impressive, because what’s better than dream-kisses?

The answer is real life kisses. Because they’re _real_.

Shane opens his eyes to see Ryan looking dazed. “Wow, I really did a number on you, huh, Bergara?”

Ryan blinks back to awareness and untangles his hand from Shane’s to punch him none-too-lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up.” His fist against Shane’s arm turns to a grip in his sleeve, and he pulls Shane in again. “Kiss me.”

Shane obliges. He takes Ryan’s coffee cup that’s tilting dangerously in his hand, and sets it on the ground too. He crowds Ryan against the arm of the couch, and they kiss for what feels like ages. Slow and leisurely even though they’re at work, even though their lunch break is probably long since over.

Shane eventually pulls back, and waits until Ryan looks a little less hazy. “So, about that whole marriage thing…”

Ryan laughs, bursts into cackles and devolves into wheezing. He hides his face against Shane’s chest until he can look at him without laughing, and Shane waits him out patiently.

Ryan’s smile, when he looks up, is blinding. “Ask me in a couple years, big guy.”

Shane leans in and kisses him again. “You got it.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this, [reblog it on tumblr](http://punk-rock-yuppie.tumblr.com/post/177047784841/back-to-you-shane)!


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